


Lights

by harcourt



Series: Stark Business Empire [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Past Abuse, Past Torture, allusion to past non-con, darkish world, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8396668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: Tony's got the answer to fixing things, and that answer is, "Vegas". It doesn't go as planned, but it doesn't go the way Phil expects either.It goes worse.





	1. Chapter 1

"We should take Clint along," Tony says, casual and over breakfast. He takes a sip of coffee before clarifying. "To Vegas."

It's a terrible idea. Phil doesn't say so, because Tony's contrary enough to get stubborn in the face of even mild criticism. "Why are you giving lectures in _Vegas_ ," he asks instead, "in the first place? Why can't you stick to the usual circuit?"

"The usual academic circuit? What am I supposed to do after the talk? And before the talk?" He gestures with his coffee cup, like he's toasting Phil. "Take a nostalgic walk around a college town? What are you worried about? It's not like people won't come. Probably _more_ people will come." Then he changes tack and goes to, "Bruce needs company. And he likes Clint. Right, Bruce?"

Bruce stills. Then his gaze slides to Phil and back to Tony, cautiously. Maybe a little suspiciously. Phil can't blame him. He feels the same way about Tony switching gears. 

"Sure," Bruce says, "but I'm not sure he's that interested in alternate propulsion systems."

"Let's keep it that way," Phil says.

"I'm not sure Clint's interested in anything," Tony says, "right now. Other than hiding out downstairs and hiding out downstairs. Maybe with a little bit of hiding out downstairs to break up the monotony."

He's not wrong. Phil's a bit surprised that he's noticed. Tony's not always great on the noticing things front, and Clint hasn't exactly been underfoot, making himself obvious or impinging on Tony's space. He's been as easy for Tony to ignore and forget as a board meeting, really.

"And it's not like he can give us the slip," Tony goes on. "Now that you've got him radio collared. So to speak. So why keep him under house arrest?"

"He can go up on the roof if he wants some fresh air. Or ride along with Pepper. Or you can take him with you to some meetings and have him serve the coffee. He's getting pretty good at pouring drinks."

" _Or_ ," Tony says, "we can take him to Vegas and he can pour drinks there, where the drinking is fun, and we can follow up with a show."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Tony scowls and knocks back his coffee. "Haha, Phil. You're uninvited from my after party."

"You don't _need_ an after party."

"Bruce, explain to Agent why it doesn't matter if we _need_ a party, so long as we _want_ a party. And we _want_ a party, Coulson."

Bruce frowns. Waits until he's sure he'll get away with not answering, then turns his attention back to the pile of papers he has next to his plate and leafs to the next page. Turning the paper with a sharp, emphatic rustle. It's not defiant, exactly, but it is pointed.

"Nobody likes anything around here," Tony complains.

\-----

"Maybe it's a good idea," is Steve's opinion. Phil gives him a look. 

"He's not doing anything _here_ ," Steve says, a little defensively. A little cautiously too, like he thinks Phil might be about to bring up his involvement in Clint's escape attempt and pin responsibility on him. 

Phil sighs and leans back against Tony's bar, where there's a clutter of screwdrivers and spray cans of machine grease, but nothing to show what Tony had been working on. "Sure. So think what he could get up to in Vegas."

Steve looks away. Rubs the back of his neck in an oddly self-conscious gesture Phil still can't interpret. It's a tell, but he's not sure of what. Guilt. Worry, maybe. It shows up at odd times. "Tony's calming down," Steve says. "I don't think he's in a mood to make trouble. And Clint--" He shrugs. Makes a helpless, open palmed gesture, both hands held out in front of him for a second before he drops them again.

"His initiative’s taken a blow," Phil finishes for him. "I know. I still don't think sending him out of state with Tony is the answer." His attitude might change given the opportunity to make new stupid decisions, for one. And there's no telling what Clint might do under pressure, or if he feels cornered. He's resourceful enough that his unpredictability is a real potential hazard.

"You're not going along?" Steve asks.

"Of course I'm going along. You're going along. We're all going along. It'll be a big family trip."

"That'll ruin it for Bruce. He likes to get away from the family."

"Bruce won't die if he has to give up mathematician sleepover camp this one time."

It comes out snappish. Sharper than he'd meant it to, and Steve smiles politely, the way he does when he's not sure how to handle Phil. Like when Phil's spilling his bad mood everywhere. "My leg hurts," Phil tells him, by way of excuse, lying as cover up. It's pretty low. A cheap dodge. "It's fine. Stick with Tony. Someone's got to keep an eye on him. Just make sure to raid the minibar before he can."

"Maybe Clint can tell you what Bruce gets up to," Steve offers, smile a little more genuine. "If you're curious."

"You don't know?"

"I'm not sure I want to." Steve gives him a meaningful look.

Phil considers that and Steve's sort of wary expression, and lets his breath out in a puff. A sort of half-laugh. "He drinks a lot of coffee and doesn't come back to sleep," he tells Steve. "But he stays out of trouble, and he's there when I need him, so I try not to notice."

"He says he's working."

Phil _mm_ -s. Then says, "If that's true, I'm a little disappointed in him."

Steve laughs, only slightly amused, then drops it. Shifts his feet a little, preparing to move on to a new topic, then opens his mouth. Phil holds up a hand to stop him. Says, "How about _you_ stay out of trouble and we don't talk about it again, deal?"

"That's not going to fix Clint."

"Vegas is going to fix Clint," Phil says. "Apparently. Take the deal, Steve."

\-----

Vegas isn't going to fix Clint. The idea isn't even a lazy, responsibility dodging patch job. Tony seems to think he's come up with an actual solution, which is a bit worrisome. Operating from guilt hasn't tended to bring Tony's most sterling results, and trying to use money and flash to fix his missteps hasn't either. Still, it's not so bad to hit the road--Bruce won't fly, and Phil's not inclined to try to make him--and have some time to just play the radio and eat greasy truck-stop food and keep a half-eye on Clint in the backseat, where Phil's got him cuffed by one wrist to the seat.

Clint's bearing it pretty easily. Balancing drink or snack or entertainment against a knee, switching hands when he has to. Adapting naturally to the lack of reach he has on one side, without comment or complaint. He's familiar with the precaution, that means. Is probably familiar with harsher precautions, giving Phil no trouble when they make stops. Efficient and obedient about eating and restrooms and staying put while Phil stretches his knee a bit.

He's not really making conversation though, not even with Bruce, and not even when Phil tries to give them moments of relative privacy. Clint's not really bouncing back the way Phil had expected, and that worries him. Makes him wonder if he's misjudged Clint's character. If there was maybe less rebellion and hard headedness there than he'd counted on. Less resilience. There's nothing he can do about it now though, other than relinquish control of the radio, let Bruce and Clint order whatever they want, and see if some soft handling will stabilize Clint. If a little coddling will bring him around.

At least Bruce seems happy enough. Taking advantage of the lax discipline and loosely enforced schedule to read over breakfast, take long showers, and generally dawdle. With no Tony to keep up with, Phil can't really hold it against him. He's kind of enjoying the leisurely pace himself. Kind of enjoying letting Tony be Happy and Pepper's problem for a while. They're probably already in Vegas, along with Steve, already settled into the penthouse and looking for distraction. Phil's phone hasn't gone off, so he puts _no news_ down to _good news_ and concentrates on enjoying the drive and Bruce's mellow song choices and the fact that Clint's slowly lulling into bored relaxation, head resting against the window as he passively watches the scenery go by. 

A month ago Phil would have suspected he was just biding his time, waiting for Phil to lower his guard. Now he almost wishes Clint would try something. His quiet compliance is like a weight in Phil's chest. He's never broken anyone before, and he really doesn't want to start with Clint. And not just because of how it'll effect Tony, to have signed off on Phil's decision to plant the tracker.

Bruce is also checking the rearview every so often, Phil notices. Glancing from his book or from fiddling with the radio tuner to keep tabs not just on Clint, but the entire contents of the car and the road behind them. Peaceful and paranoid at the same time, and it makes Phil smile a little because it's taken a while for the peace to outweigh the paranoid, but they're as close they're probably going to get now, with long stretches going by where Bruce doesn't even look up. Concerns about Clint aside, it's not too bad a start to the week.

Even concerns about Tony seem to be a temporary non-issue, because when they finally get to Vegas and to the penthouse suite Pepper's booked them all into, they find Tony out in the attached rooftop garden, drinking coffee and going over lecture notes like a responsible, professional adult.

"Gotta free Bruce up to party," he says, when he notices Phil looking at him in amusement. "Or whatever wild shit he gets up to on these shindigs."

"Physics," Bruce says, from inside, checking the place out like a cat in a new apartment.

" _Physics_ ," Tony repeats, and wiggles his eyebrows at Phil, grinning briefly before going back to his tablet. He's dressed in a hotel bathrobe and slippers even though it's the middle of the afternoon. Phil wonders if he's even showered or if he's been there drinking the same pot of coffee since breakfast.

"Where's Steve?"

"With Happy."

"Where's Happy?"

"I don't know. Guarding an elevator or something. _Relax_ , Coulson. Take a load off, check out the fruit basket, raid the mini bar. There's nothing in there but seltzer and juice though and let me tell you I'm just _shocked_ at how understocked this place is, considering it's got like a zillion stars."

Phil doesn't react, other than to lean a little in the doorway.

"You're not supposed to be babysitting _me_ , you know. If I wanted that, I'd get like, I don't know. Models. Sexy maids." He pauses, looks up to frown into the distance, then back down to the screen he's working on. "If Pepper would let me get sexy maids. She never likes any of my ideas anymore."

"Tony--"

"But she got us tickets to a show, so I guess _her_ ideas a go."

It'll be good for Tony to go do something normal. Go out for dinner. Spend some time not holed up with his work and his robots, and maybe even talking about something other than work and robots and alternative energy solutions. Hopefully thinking about something other than Yinsen and guilt, and Clint and guilt, and weapons sold and resold until they ended up in the wrong hands and guilt.

"I hope it's a musical," Phil says.

"You monster."

"I hope she makes you dress up."

Tony looks down at himself. "Why? You don't think I can go like this?" Then continues straight into, "Happy's coming for security. You think you'll need Steve more than Steve wants to see a kickline?"

Phil's not sure what Steve's feelings on that are, but he could also do with some entertainment that has nothing to do with escapes or meltdowns. "Take him. We'll hang out here, order room service, listen to the quiet."

"It's _Vegas_." Tony looks up, scandalized.

"Then we'll hang out here, order room service, and watch the lights," Phil says, nodding towards the parapet of the little garden. "Maybe go down to the spa, if no one manages to set themself on fire." To soak his leg in a hot tub. The long drive hasn't done him any favors and a dull ache is extending down to his calf and up his thigh. And maybe a massage after, even though Phil's wary of letting anyone near his leg who isn't specially trained in not fucking up old injuries.

Or he could call someone in. Tony's got anyone they might need on call, anywhere they might need someone to be on call. It's a surreal level of luxury, even after all this time. Really, it's a wonder Tony's as normal as he is.

"Stop smiling at me," Tony grouches. "It's dinner and a show, it's not like we're going to prom."

It takes Phil a second to catch back up. "You'll let me take pictures before you go anyway, right?"

"Haha." Tony taps his screen twice. "I'm not even sure I'm going to _shave_ before we go."

"Be nice to Pepper."

"When she lets me have sexy maids."

 _She let you have Clint and Steve_ , Phil doesn't say, because he knows when he's being baited. Instead he straightens back up, carefully shifting weight back onto his leg, not smooth enough that Tony doesn't notice.

"Take a load off, Phil. I saved you the room with the view."

They _all_ have a view, but Tony means the master bedroom. It's touching, in the weird Tony way that they can never talk about without everything getting fumbling and awkward.

"Lots of room to hang your suits," Tony adds, just in case he's coming off as nice.

\-----

The penthouse is secure, so Phil leaves Bruce and Clint to explore and sort out sleeping arrangements while he stretches out on the king size bed in his shirtsleeves, shoes kicked off sloppily and left wherever they've fallen. The ache in his knee has moved up to his back, his muscles tense from bracing, but he can feel it bleeding it away now that he's lying down. Even his leg feels better, except for the knee itself where it feels like the joint is burning.

"Next time one of you is driving," Phil says, sensing movement. Clint, he thinks, when there's no answer. "Did you get your stuff put away?"

There's a long silence, and then Clint says, "There's a single."

It's a question. Phil can tell more by the hesitant way Clint says it than any inflection. "Fight it out with Bruce if Steve didn't get there first."

Another pause. He can hear Clint shifting his weight, like he's torn between asking something else, and leaving while he's ahead. "I'm not sure what--"

The rules are. That's where he's going. If Phil's still impressed by the level of service and pampering that is travelling and vacationing with Tony, Clint's got to be well out of his depths. Especially with the way discipline and order had gone out the window somewhere around their third diner stop. The loose reins are unnerving him more than they are settling him. Phil stretches a little, feeling something in his back pull, then loosen. "It's been a long drive, Clint. Just pick a room and take a nap or something. We're going to wait for Pepper, get Tony out the door on time, then get dinner, watch movies, and hang around in our socks."

Clint lets his breath out in a huff. Phil adds, "How do you feel about a massage?"

Silence. He's not sure what Clint's making of that. What he's thinking or imagining.

"Or not. It's up to you. Steve's probably going to go with Tony and Pepper." It's so much like a vacation, Phil can almost feel his blood pressure dropping just in anticipation.

"Up to me, huh?" Clint echoes. There's a snort he's leaving off the end of it. Phil can tell just from his tone. From how flat and _un_ sarcastic it is. He's _definitely_ learning from Bruce.

"Why don't you go order yourself some food? See if Tony's eaten. Then you can help Bruce steal all the little soaps and drive up Tony's minibar bill."

"There's nothing in there but ginger ale," Clint says, unthinking, then adds, "Sir." 

It's a slip, but it's a slip in the right direction. Clint's lack of caution means he's relaxing a little. Not as on-guard as he'd been. "Then drive up Tony's room service bill."

This time Clint does make a little scoffing noise, disbelieving but also with a little laugh in it. Maybe imagining Tony's offense at them ordering beer and whiskeys while at the same time cutting him off. "Just give me a couple hours, okay?" Phil says. "Some of use aren't as young as we used to be."

Silence. Noise from the hall. Then Clint reports, "Bruce has the single."

"That's what you get for wasting time talking"

There's the sound of movement. Clint shifting. Hesitating. He doesn't say anything and after a few seconds is gone, leaving the room feeling big and empty again, as quiet as if Phil was alone in the penthouse.

It's great. It also lasts for long enough that he nods off and only blinks awake hours later, to the sound of voices shouting down up and down the hall. The light outside his window has dimmed to late evening murk, the sky sunset yellow and orange. His knee is stiff, but his back feels better.

Out in the living area, Steve and Happy are dressed up in what Phil thinks of as bodyguard formalwear. Looking like awkward SHIELD agents in their bowties and dress shirts, while Pepper shouts something about shoes from the corner bedroom.

"Running late." Steve explains.

"I don't want to know. Enjoy your ballet."

"I hope it's not ballet," Happy says.

"I'd trade you, but I'm a little lacking in the speed and chasing department today."

"I also hope there won't be speed and chasing."

"Just laying low and dinner," Steve adds, and offers Phil a smile that's either wry or meant to be reassuring and failing.

"Good," Phil says. "That's all I want. Just peace and quiet until Tony decides to blow up a stage or something."

"Bruce says it's looking good for having an actual lecture. He's very excited. He thinks they might get to a real Q and A section."

"Let's hope," Phil says, as Tony finally emerges with his tie still undone and carrying one shoe, talking at Pepper over his shoulder while he hunts around for the other.

\-----

Tony doesn't blow anything up. The days leading up to his weekend of talks are quiet and lazy and mostly involve him and Pepper going out in a strangely domestic, low-key way considering where they are. The lectures go just as well. Organized and structured and under control, and there's no sudden houseparty afterwards either. Just Bruce rechecking notes, while Clint hangs around the rooftop garden, watching the street below and helping Steve and Happy taste-test their way through the hotel menu. Phil would thank Tony for the peace, if he didn't think it would come out wrong, but for once it's like things are normal and like _they're_ normal.

Which is why Phil probably shouldn't have been surprised when everything goes to shit.

It happens on Sunday, right after the last talk, and while Bruce is still inside gathering up his notes and shutting down computers. Making sure they have all their material back, and chatting with his fellow academics while Tony ignores clean-up and professional niceties to go have pictures taken out front, while Phil keeps Clint by his side, or with Pepper, depending on which of them is most safely away from the cameras.

Clint's not an idiot. Phil's sure he knows he's somewhere between being guarded and sheltered, but if the idea bothers him, he's not showing any sign of it. Following close on Phil's heels as he heads down the hall under the convention space, the noise of the crowd above muted into a distant hum as everyone finds their way out to the lobby and eventually the street.

Phil's about to say something about Clint doing really well, and about wanting dinner and a drink, when the building shudders around them, shudders again, and then alarms start going off.

Clint moves before Phil can, grabbing his arm and bolting for the exit, dragging him along even though Phil's instincts are to go back inside, to Bruce. He's yelling at Clint about it, shouting "Let go!" and "Bruce is inside!" and swearing, when they're suddenly washed in cool night air, and then in hot air, and then in dust, and then everything washes away in a torrent of gravel and impact, and the next thing Phil knows, he's on the ground with his mouth full of grit and his eyes watering.

"Fuck. Fuck, Clint. Are you okay?"

There's nothing for a second, and then he hears Clint spit, spit again, then ask, "What the _hell_?"

"Something--"

There's yelling. Screaming. Sirens and someone shouting over and over again, calling out without waiting for an answer. Hysterical.

"What blew up?" Phil finishes, and tries to get up. It takes a few tries to realize that he's not making much headway, and that it's not because of lack of coordination or the wind being knocked out of him, but because he's half-pinned under rubble. "Damn."

They're out in the street. Clint had dragged him out a fire exit, but that exit and the facade that had been above it are also out in the street now, turned inside out and blown across the road and sidewalk. Phil's back hurts, and he can hear Clint panting harshly nearby and from above. Still on his feet. "You okay?" Phil asks again, makes another attempt to wriggle free then winces and stops. "Clint?"

"Yeah." A pause while Clint checks himself over, then confirms, "Yeah, I'm good," and then the dust settles enough that Phil can see him rubbing at his face and wiping his mouth on a sleeve that's as filthy as the rest of him. He's covered in a film of grit, turning him grayish from head to foot. Even his hair is coated in the stuff, looking stiff and windblown as he glances sideways and down at Phil, then adds, "Sir."

Which is when Phil notices that his sidearm's been thrown free of its holster and is lying in the street between them.

Clint doesn't move. He's been keeping an eye on the weapon the whole time.

The building shudders again, and something else crashes inside. 

"Oh fuck," Clint says.

Pepper, Phil thinks, Pepper had been heading out for publicity shots with Tony. They should both have been outside already, back on the red carpet to sign things and pose and look beautiful. Steve and Happy would have been with them, but Bruce had been--"Bruce is inside."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Clint says again, low and with feeling. Eyes going from the gun to the building, and back to the gun. 

He could kill Phil. If Tony's down or trapped, there'll be no one to activate the tracker. Maybe no one to know that Clint had survived the blast. If he saves himself a bullet, and takes Phil out with a brick or a chunk of wall, the death won't even look suspicious. It's the perfect opportunity to disappear, or at least the perfect opportunity to get a head start. Clint might not be able to remove the tracker, but it's possible he's still got contacts who can disable it, and with the time it'll take for his disappearance to be noticed, he might even make it. Considering the longshot he'd taken before, he's got to be thinking it, even with the risk involved.

"Clint."

Clint picks the gun up. From around the front of the building, there's the popping sound of gunfire. Phil hopes that's Steve and Happy firing and not being fired _at_.

Clint makes sure the gun is loaded and adjusts his grip. Even after all the time he's been away from weapons, he's good. Phil can tell just by the confident, practiced way he's holding the thing, like he's more comfortable now, with a weapon in his hands, than any time before. Like his skin fits better, now that he's armed. It makes Phil think of the _dangerous_ and _caution_ stamped over Clint's file.

"Clint, listen to me." The rubble shifts when Phil tries to wriggle free again. He's not trapped, but it's going to take him some time to work himself loose. "You have to find Bruce."

Clint's eyes flick back the way they'd come. His expression turns doubtful, then questioning, then carefully blank.

"He's okay," Phil promises. "But someone has to get to him." Before things get worse. Really, really worse. "Get him someplace safe."

He shifts again. His knee more than twinges. It feels like it's wrenched to hell, and something wet is trickling down the back of his neck. Clint looks bruised as well. Something's scraped his face and his shirt is torn at the elbow. He'd been thrown down too, then. Maybe that's part of what's slowing him down, keeping him from adding everything up and taking his chances.

That or he's worried about Bruce. Or he's shaken enough that he's falling back on old training. The way he's responding to Phil's tone makes him think that's a distinct possibility.

"How can he possibly--" Clint starts then, asks, "How do I get in?"

Phil tries to shift his leg. It hurts like fuck. "Just go, Clint. Figure it out. Don't get caught with that gun."

There's people coming. Rescue or fire or just the crowd moving away from the chaos at the front entrance. " _Go_."

Clint hesitates, shifts his weight and looks up the street almost with longing, then heads back the way they'd come, picking his way back inside and to where they'd last seen Bruce.

Around front, there's a rushing noise, a cascade of concrete and glass and a lot of shouting blending together, and then something zips upwards, bright, flashing red and gold in the evening light as it shoots around the building in a tight arc. 

Tony in the suit. Thank god he's okay. 

And he's scouting the building, which means Pepper's most likely okay, and probably Steve and Happy too. Hopefully they'd all been too far outside to be caught in the blast or collapse that had followed. If any of them were hurt, Tony wouldn’t be circling the higher floors, looking for danger zones and ferrying people down, a couple at a time, hovering to scan for those at highest risk.

Or he would, Phil thinks, because there's more likely to be on-scene help for anyone who'd been on the ground, and Tony's not a man to put his own feelings first if someone else is in real, immediate danger. In the suit, Tony's not at all a spoiled, insufferable socialite, but a selfless hero, and the man Phil _always_ sees, somewhere under all the sulking and the bravado and the attitude. The man Tony could be-- _would be_ \--if he wasn't carrying around all the things Tony carried around.

It makes Phil hurt, somewhere down in his chest, to be a part of it. This--Tony, the things Tony does, the way he's _helping_ \--is the sort of thing Phil used to imagine, as a boy. The sort of thing he'd imagined he was joining, back when he's signed with the military and later with SHIELD, and then gotten himself shot in the name of foreign policy and national interest and secrets he didn't have the clearance to be fully let in on. It's a joke on him that what he'd been looking for had come in the form of shit-talking, trouble-making, erratic pain-in-the-ass Tony Stark. As far from any image of hero Phil would have dreamt up when he was young.

It's even hard to see it now, some days, but it's still terrible and unfair that the media and large sections of the public are likely to see Tony through that same lens. See the trouble and the trouble making, and assume that the trouble that follows Tony must be his doing and his responsibility. They're going to blame him for being a target, for drawing chaos, for bringing it with him to a city that isn't his own. Phil can practically see the headlines; _Tony Stark destroys Vegas_ , and not, _Ironman rescues dozens at great risk to self_.

Because there is risk. Whoever had set the explosives was clearly targeting Tony, and he's not exactly hidden, in bright gold against the side of the building, a target in the clear. Even in the armor he's not exactly safe, and Phil hopes to god that Steve and Happy are in a position to provide cover fire if needed.

He wishes Clint didn't have his gun, so he could help too, if it came to that. Or at least, so he could defend himself. Phil shifts his legs, one and then the other. Slowly easing himself free. Gritting his teeth as pull himself forward on his elbow, a painful inch at a time, feeling rubble shift around him until he's loose. Until enough weight is off his legs that he can pull free and roll onto his back, and then slowly push himself into a sitting position. He'd fucking kill for a hand up and a walking stick.

And for Rhodey. Phil would probably go a few steps further than just kill if it would guarantee Rhodey to show up in the next minute, with the War Machine armor, ready to help and fight and protect Tony the way Phil sure as hell can't right now.

It takes another few minutes for Phil to get to his feet, and by then the fire department is there and Tony's switching between hovering around in case he's needed, and helping to move the larger pieces of debris. The marquee sign's come down, missing half the letters of _Tonight: Tony Stark_ and the entire line with his lecture topic. It's big. Phil hopes no one's been crushed, but he's sure the explosion in the lobby had claimed victims either way.

"Coulson?"

It's Happy, covered in dust the way Clint had been, his gun out and his expression serious, but with his bowtie still secure.

"Where's Steve?" Phil asks him.

"With Ms. Potts. They're okay. You look great."

Phil looks down at himself. His pants are torn, and his tie pulled askew, and he's bleeding onto his shirt. He dabs at his face with a sleeve, trying to find the wound. Where ever it is, he can't feel it. There's a streak of rust across Happy's jaw, like he's wiped at an injury himself. Or wiped his face after touching someone injured.

"I think I'm all here," Phil agrees. "You okay?"

"Where're the others?"

"Bruce was inside."

Happy's still looking at him, face serious and calm. He looks like an honest to god bodyguard instead of Tony's kind of goofy friend. They're all so changeable, when disaster strikes. They're all so _good_ , when they're afraid and in danger and have jobs to do.

"I sent Clint after him," Phil says.

"Oh god," Happy says. "Does he--Did you _warn_ him?"

He'd said something. He'd told Clint--"No. No, I just told him to get Bruce out."

Happy looks like he's going to ask something else, but then he just says, "Okay. Okay, I'm on it." And then he's yelling for a medic and tucking his gun into his jacket and running the way Phil had come, yelling into his radio.

 _It's dangerous_ , Phil wants to tell him, except Happy already knows that, and a second later Tony's landing nearby and shouting at Steve to do something, faceplate up, and eyes huge and dark.

"God, my head hurts," Phil says, becoming aware of it now that he knows they're all alive. He's lightheaded, all of a sudden.

"No kidding," Tony remarks. His eyes flick over Phil like when he's taking stock of a project. Doing a damage check. "Go with Pepper. She'll find you an icepack. Maybe a helmet. Jesus, Coulson."

"Bruce was--"

"Inside. I heard. Hang tight, okay? We have to get him before he gets Clint."


	2. Chapter 2

"It was a bad call," Phil says, later, when they're back in their hotel suite and he's got his leg in a brace and a bandage on his head, where it turns out he's taken a good thunk from a piece of flying brick or something. "I wasn't thinking."

"You'd been blown up." Tony sounds dismissive. Much more so than when he's talking about his own screw-ups.

"They get on. I just thought--Oh god."

"You were afraid about Bruce. I get it. But damn, Phil, what a way for a guy to find out, huh?"

Phil laughs. Humorless. "You told him it was student loans. That they got Bruce for."

"Well, the loans didn't help," Tony says and offers a brief grin. The irreverent joker coming back a little, now that he's had a good adrenaline rush to remind him what's important and flush away the moody self-recrimination of the last several weeks.

That, and because Tony's always liked the Hulk. Likes the reckless science hiding inside Bruce's wary shell, and the proof that really, Bruce is as ready to take risky jumps as Tony, in spite of all his cautions and disciplined note-taking insistence on process. Tony's always thrilled to have a run-in with Bruce's destructive alter ego, always relieved when they manage to keep him a secret and between those two things, he's as high on success as Clint is shaken.

"This was supposed to _fix_ him," Phil says. He's got his foot up on a cushion in the sitting area, and he can see Clint outside in the garden, arms hanging over the far wall, just leaning there quietly like he's been all morning, watching the road and keeping his distance. It's getting to Bruce. Phil can tell Clint's new layer of wariness is hurting him, because he's also keeping to himself, in the single room he'd probably taken to have privacy to read and unsupervised opportunities to sneak out. When Phil's checked on him, he hasn't been up to either, just lying there watching the ceiling, stewing. Not that Phil expects him to be in a sneaking mood after the attack.

"It's a step," Tony says, taking a seat on the edge of the couch that Phil's reclining on. Shifting his weight onto it carefully, like he's afraid to jostle Phil. "Now he's one itty bit closer, right? To us. And our--I don't know. Inner sanctum."

"What was the other step? Telling him you're Iron Man? He _knew_ you were Iron Man."

Tony _mm_ -s, then allows, "Well. Sort of knew."

"Are we avoiding the news?" Phil asks, changing the subject, nodding his head at the television. It's been off all day and he hasn't seen Tony pick up his tablet yet either. Instead he'd spent the morning having a drawn out breakfast with Pepper and Steve and Happy, then killed more time doodling on napkins and maybe taking a few calls. It's quiet, for Tony.

"No," Tony says, "I think we know what the news is saying."

"All the things it's said before?"

Tony shrugs Scratches his beard. He's got scrapes on his face from flying debris. Scratches and bruises on his arms. Nothing serious, and Pepper's in similar shape, plus one ruined dress and a broken shoe heel. Phil's knee and goose egg is the worst injury they'd taken, and if it's unfair that innocent, uninvolved civilians had taken most of the damage, Phil's also relieved. Tony doesn't look as pleased.

"Phil."

"Oh, no."

Tony smiles at his tone, a brief expression before he turns serious again. It makes Phil's heart rate climb a little. "What?" he demands, when Tony doesn't go on. 

Tony takes a breath. Repeats, "Phil," in an apologetic tone.

" _What_ , Tony? Just tell me." Someone's hurt worse than they'd thought. Internal injury, maybe. Someone had been killed that they hadn't considered. Some guest who was a friend. Somehow, Tony's being held responsible and the military is going to take the armor. Or--"Did something happen to Rhodey?"

"What?" Tony asks, startled, then shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "No. No, he checked in this morning. He saw the news." That brief smile again. "He said he saw it come on the scroll and knew it was us before they even got to the story."

Phil pushes himself up. "Did Fury--?"

"No." Tony doesn't laugh. He usually laughs about SHIELD, just to be a shit. Usually makes cracks about their technology or their rent-a-staff or about Nick himself.

"I can't think where else this could be going," Phil says. "So why don't you just tell me?"

Tony shifts. Takes another breath. Starts from, "Phil," again. If Phil had a better angle, he'd punch him, just to knock the story out of him. "They've got Clint. On tape."

"Who's got Clint?"

"They. The city of Vegas. The whole street's security cammed to hell and back. Casino central. You know how it is. The explosion took out most of the cameras on the building, but--" Tony shrugs. "It wasn't exactly a dark zone."

Clint hadn't done anything. Clint had been with Phil or Pepper, and had gone to find Bruce in a crisis and under orders. It's bending rules, since technically he'd been out on his own, but under the circumstances....

"The gun," Phil concludes. "They have him with the gun."

"They have him looking like he's about to pop you, then running."

"I told him to go find Bruce."

"He's got a record of running."

"He's got a _tracker_."

"I know. Turns out that was a good call, because if he'd meant to run with that thing in him, you wouldn't be here. It's a point in his favor." Tony smiles again, humorless this time. Not trying to reassure Phil anymore. "Let's not pretend this isn't a shot at me, Coulson. Some ass wants me to look dangerous, and if I'm dumb enough to buy Clint and not keep him under control, then I'm too dumb to keep the suits."

"Good thing they don't have Bruce on camera," Phil remarks, and Tony snorts.

"Yeah."

"You think the WSC is pushing this?"

"Who else? Not that I want to point fingers. I'm not a finger-pointer. It's just a guess. Wild and out there, like lots of my guesses." He's turned away from Phil now, looking at his hands as he picks at the edge of a nail. The way his back is hunched looks tense and angry and defensive. "They served us a warrant."

"The WSC?"

"Vegas police. Officially. They want an interview, and they're entitled to it. With what's happened, and with his record and with us transporting him across statelines and then letting him get his hands on a gun and take off."

"He didn't _do_ anything."

"And someone had just tried to kill us. Someone was _shooting_." Tony shrugs. "They're assholes, Phil, but Pepper's managed to keep it quiet. The Clint thing, I mean. We just have to give them the interview."

"You mean the interrogation? You _promised_ him. _We_ promised him."

"We're not letting him go," Tony says, sounding offended that Phil would even think it. "But Pepper thinks it's smarter to cooperate and see how things play."

"He didn't run," Phil says. "He didn't _try_ to run. He came back on his own."

"To be fair, he'd had a bit of a shock," Tony says. "But yeah, that's another point in his favor."

\-----

"I already heard," Clint says, not moving as Phil limps up behind him. Still with his arms draped over the stone wall of the garden. Phil's talking to a lot of people's backs today.

"Where's the gun?"

Clint lifts his head and turns it, just enough to get Phil in his sightline. Phil takes a small, shuffling step to the side, obliging. Rests an elbow on the wall so it can take some of his weight and repeats, "Did you bring it back?"

"Steve took it. I--Bruce was--"

"The Hulk," Phil finishes for him. "We call him the Hulk."

Clint doesn't respond for a while, scanning Phil for something, not really suspiciously. More tired than anything. He's got a good scrape on his face as well, up on one temple. That could have been bad, if whatever it was had hit him more solidly. "Did Tony?" He asks, eventually, "do that? To Bruce?"

"Bruce did that to Bruce."

Phil doesn't elaborate, but Clint seems satisfied with that, nodding before turning back to the view. It's less impressive in the day, without all the lights. Phil's not sure what Clint's been looking at out here all morning. Maybe he's just enjoying the sun, after all the time cooped up in Stark Tower.

"It's a secret," Phil tells him, eventually. "If you care about Bruce--" He lets it hang. Clint doesn't respond.

Then he says, "Tony's going to be in trouble."

"If word gets out? We're all going to be in trouble."

That gets him an irritated sound. It's fair. Phil knew what he meant, that he wasn't talking about the Hulk or Bruce anymore. "Tony's always in trouble. This wasn't your fault."

"The gun--"

"There was _shooting_ , Clint."

"I was going to get Bruce safe, and go," Clint admits. "And fuck the tracker. I was going to--That's why I needed the gun, and then--"

"And then the Hulk," Phil finishes for him. "You know, bullets can't hurt him."

Clint twitches. He'd tried shooting, then. He's lucky to be alive. Bruce must be pretty fond of him, for him to get away with threatening the Hulk and under already tense circumstances.

"Well, you got me," Clint says suddenly, straightening up and turning to face Phil. His face is tense, his jaw set. "I froze, and now you've got me. Again."

"The Hulk tends to have that effect, the first time you see him."

"What are you gonna do?" Clint asks. "Now?"

"Have coffee."

"No, I mean--" Clint starts, then cuts it off. Rethinks his tactics, and asks, more politely, "Where are they going to send me?"

Phil knew that's where he was heading, ever since he'd mentioned the gun. "We made you a promise. You're not going anywhere. Come inside."

"Thought I'd get some fresh air while I have the chance, sir."

"You'll have the chance. Come inside."

Clint gives the street a last, reluctant look.

"I can't stand on this knee all day, Clint." Then, when Clint doesn't move, "You pulled me out."

"Only because you were babysitting me." He offers a half smile with that. Quirked, like Tony. Like he means it half-sarcastically, but not really, but maybe yes, depending on how Phil reacts.

"It's my job."

Clint ducks his head. Scratches an arm. Some healing abrasion that he's opening back up, probably. None of them are unscathed, and Clint hadn't been any further in the clear than Phil. It's just luck that he's not hurt worse. "Sure, but you wouldn't have been in that hall to start with, otherwise." Clint shrugs. "Fair's fair, right?"

If only _fair_ was how things worked. Clint's probably thinking the same thing, because he gives Phil another one of those Tony-smiles. Dark and ironic and flatly humorless. "There's going to be an interview," Phil tells him. "I don't know how much Tony explained, but I'll be with you. Just tell the truth, everything that happened."

"Except for Bruce."

"Except for the Hulk," Phil corrects. "It'll be fine. Now come inside so we can go over answers. If we can prep Tony for talk shows, we can prep you for this. God knows you're more likely to stay on script. It'll be fine."

Clint hesitates again, looking over to the doors of the penthouse, then back to the street, turning away from Phil again to look at something below. Watching a fountain go through its cycle of patterns. He's quiet for what feels like a long time, long enough for the fountain to repeat itself, and then he says, "They start with drugs," and pauses again, before adding, "I don't even remember the first couple weeks. I mean--" A shrug. "It's hazy. I couldn't tell you what I did."

Or said. Or didn't say. Phil knows he's talking about the retraining center. He's heard about the kind of techniques that could be employed and it's not like Clint had come in as a runner with an otherwise shiny record.

"It's not going to be like that."

"If they take me back--"

"They're not taking you anywhere," Phil says, again. Then adds, lighter, trying to make it a joke, even though nothing about the situation is funny. "You know too much now."

Unexpectedly, Clint laughs at that. Like the underlying promise is a relief, whichever way Phil means it. His shoulders relax, even though he's still watching the fountain and not making eye contact. Not looking at Phil at all, really. He needs a haircut. It's starting to look a little scruffy, and the way his face is scratched and bruised isn't helping. Just enough of a trim to make him look charmingly ruffled and sympathetic instead of like some lawless rogue.

"They make sure you know you're not a person," Clint says. "At--those places. I ran because I wasn't going to be some asshole's toy. The first time. I wasn't going to be a _thing_." He gives Phil a quick sideways glance, then looks away again. "They made sure I knew I'd made a mistake, thinking that." His expression sets again, into a stubborn look that reminds Phil an awful lot of Steve at his trial. Set jaw. Hard eyes. "I'm not going to let them have Bruce," he says.

\-----

Clint's a lot more coachable than Tony. A lot more motivated to _be_ coachable, to start with, but he also settles himself on the carpet next to the couch, like they're in the training room back home in New York and preparing to work on something. Phil doesn't comment on the choice, and busies himself with his leg instead, getting it comfortably propped up again, shoving pillows under his knee and adjusting them until he can find an angle that eases the nails-in-the-joint feeling a bit.

"Just tell them everything, up to finding Bruce. Then say Happy and Steve caught up to you, the end. Just gloss over the other guy."

"What if they ask?"

There'd no reason anyone would ask. It's not a guess Phil thinks is on anyone's radar, to ask if Hulk had made an appearance. If it comes up, it means their secrecy's been blown and they're screwed anyway. Before he can say so, Clint adds, "How Bruce survived, I mean. He's not even scratched. What if they want to talk to him?"

Bruce is great at the non-answer. Also at the who-knows fatalism that makes people not examine him too closely.

"We don't know. Bruce got lucky. The blast was more in the lobby and exits than the stage area. That's our best guess."

Clint considers that, resting his arm on the edge of the couch and his chin on his arm. It's the most relaxed he's been around Phil, in a while, and it's only because he's distracted by other concerns now. Busy filing away all the right answers and making sure their stories will line up.

Phil's sure everything will go fine, right up until they show up downtown for the interview and find a video camera in the room.

Clint comes to a dead stop in the doorway, like he's hit a wall and glances quick about the room, even though it's empty and spartan and like any other interrogation room. Long mirror along one wall to hide observers, metal table, sad folding chairs, and an ugly avocado paint job, with equally ugly beige linoleum flooring. The air-conditioning is humming too loud for how cool it isn't, like it needs a good clean or even replacing.

"It's for the records," Phil tells him, giving him a little nudge. "In case they need transcripts. It's standard."

"Yeah, I bet," Clint mutters, but he lets Phil guide him through the doorway and towards the table.

"Have a seat," Phil tells him. Then clarifies, "In the chair," when Clint doesn't move, obviously uncertain. "This isn't anything but a talk, remember?"

Clint's eyes flick to the camera. It's not the flashing that gets him, then. Or at least, not just the flashing, but he hadn't reacted to any of the security cameras all over the convention hall or in the hotel lobby. Phil can hear him breathing, too measured to be natural.

"It's okay. Someone's watching." He nods at the window. Smiles at whoever's behind it. "They'll let us sit. Then someone will come and offer us coffee. You want coffee?"

"No." A pause to swallow. "No, sir."

Phil fights the urge to reassure him again, and puts his energy to settling himself down and looking casual. His knee is throbbing. He really misses that couch back at the hotel. If he keeps hobbling around like this, he's going to end up on crutches.

"Jesus," he says, when someone finally comes in. "Took you guys long enough. How about a coffee?" He tilts his head at Clint a little, "Water for him."

There's two of them. They both pause at Phil's impatient tone, then Cop One shrugs and turns to his partner. Gestures for her to do as Phil's asked. They're buying his affronted elite act, which means they have the upper hand already. It should be smooth sailing, except that Clint had put both hands on top of the table the second the door had opened, laying his palms flat, an obviously conditioned response, and not one he'd picked up in his training house days.

"Afternoon," Phil offers, a little more friendly, as the cop takes a seat opposite them. "Is this going to take long? I spent yesterday getting blown up, so I'd like to get back to my aspirin and ice packs, if you don't mind."

"We'll keep it brief." He's got a file with him. Great. "Just figuring out if we need to kick this up to Regulation."

Regulation. Phil huffs in annoyance at the suggestion, but Clint stays very still, pressing his hands against the table the way he had the roof of the car, that day that Phil had caught him and Steve heading south. "Is this really a bigger deal than someone attacking a _science lecture_?"

"We've got people working on that. But I think you're aware the security risks of--" He pauses, like he doesn't know how to refer to Clint, with him sitting right there, then just doesn't finish. "He's got quite the record. If Stark wasn't Stark, I don't think he'd have been allowed the purchase, considering his own record."

"His record of saving New York?" Phil suggests, but before he can say anything else, Cop Two comes back with a paper cup and a plastic bottle, setting them both by Phil, before walking around the table to turn on the camera and take her own seat.

"House special," she says, nodding at the cup. "You should have gone for the water yourself, probably." 

The good cop, Phil thinks, but sets the water closer to Clint and picks up the cup. "Thanks for the warning."

"I understand you've seen the footage? Or do we need to review it?" 

They've seen it. Reviewed it. Know how to answer questions about it. Phil gestures the go-ahead, and takes a sip of his coffee. Cop Two was right. It's terrible.

There's a brief round of introductions, followed by a quick recap of the security tape contents--for the camera's benefit, Phil thinks, not really listening to the formalities. Paying more attention to the way Clint's very studiously not looking at the camera. Phil's glanced at it a few times. It's hard not to, with it sitting there on a tripod, big and outdated, with a blinking red light and everything, but Clint hasn't looked at it once, eyes on his hands, listening with more attention than he's ever paid to Phil, head tilted just a little in concentration.

"We'll start with the gun," Good Cop says.

"Right to it, then," Phil comments, but smiles. "It fell. When we got caught in a terrorist attack. It was on the news."

He can feel Clint tensing. Clint wants him to shut up and play nice, which is weird for Clint. Clint had smarted off at Tony even before he'd had any idea what Tony might or might not do to him. The wanting to play nice and keep his head down means he's not reading Phil and Phil's intentions. Not recognizing that impatient, affronted innocence is more likely to get them moved along quickly than playing well behaved and quiet.

It's something about the room and the camera together, Phil decides. Maybe the furniture. The cold functionality of the table, and the soldered on hoop to fix prisoners' cuffs to. He'd balked from similar attachments on furniture at the tower. His hands are still flat on the table, keeping them in plain sight. He hasn't touched the water.

Phil waits for a comment about how well he's got Clint trained, but it doesn't come. They're professionals, and not even very invested professionals. Probably, they don't want to be on this duty either, and would prefer to be doing actual investigating. Tony's right. Someone higher up is pushing for the questioning, hoping for a misstep that will let them kick an accident and misjudgment into an actual investigation.

"There was shooting," Clint's saying, voice low and polite. An unspoken sir or ma'am at the end of it. Phil had told him _model behavior_ , but this is so textbook it's unsettling. "I didn't think. I--" A quick look at Phil. Just his eyes flicking to the side and back. It's the first he's looked up from the little bit of table between his hands. "Coulson didn't say no. So I just went." 

"Went?"

"Inside. To get Bruce. He--" A stumble. Phil knows that he's sticking on memories of finding the Hulk in Bruce's place, but it's convincing as concern. As having been nearly blown up himself. "We didn't know if he was okay."

"Was the gun fired?"

"Yes." Phil says. "Not by Clint." Their only real lie, to pin the spent bullets on Happy. In case anyone finds them during clean up and thinks to ask questions. He should have warned Clint about the Hulk. Somehow. He'd known something like this could happen.

They take notes. Clint's head tilts just a bit more. Like he's listening intently, or trying to watch the room while keeping position. Angling his face further away from the camera.

"He shouldn't have picked up the gun. I should have stopped him, but none of us were thinking clearly. He didn't run. He was following orders." Phil waves a hand to indicate Clint's form-perfect behavior. Takes another sip of his terrible coffee. It's somehow watery and too bitter at the same time.

There's that moment on the tape. The one that had stretched out and out, when Phil had thought Clint might put a bullet in his head. When Clint was thinking it. On the tape, it's just a tense few seconds where they're looking at each other before Clint breaks and heads off screen. Suspicious, if viewed with suspicion. With Clint being so subdued and compliant, it's nothing. Phil can tell the cops think their time is being wasted. Thank god for inter-departmental resentment and jurisdiction pissing matches.

The interview goes on, anticlimactic after all their preparation and worry, but Clint's tension never uncoils. He's doesn't look happier leaving than he had arriving, following Phil back out into the hall and out to the car in silence, dropping into the passenger seat without ever saying a word. He'd never even touched his water.

"I think that went well," Phil says, buckling up and pretending to adjust the rearview, but really taking the opportunity to look Clint over. He looks like hell. Pale under the scrapes and bruises. Kind of pathetic. No wonder the cops had been annoyed with having to spend time on them. Even with Clint's record, he doesn't look much like a fighter. The last entry in his file had been about retraining and sale. They must have decided it had taken. If Clint hadn't tried to run that first time, hadn't admitted to almost taking that shot after the explosion and trying again, Phil might believe it himself. "They'll let us know by the end of the day. I hope." He starts the car. Pulls out into the road. "After this weekend, I'd like to get home."

Clint snorts. "Me too," he says, wry, sounding just a little bit more like himself. He's still looking down at his hands, palms up now, and resting on his thighs.

Phil doesn't tell him, _you're going home_ , the way he wants to, because he's not sure Clint feels that way about the tower yet. Instead he says, "It'll be fine, Clint."

\-----

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, when they get back. Flat, and with only a small frown on his face. Just the slightest downturn at the corners of his mouth. "I didn't--"

"Die?" Phil ask. "I'm grateful."

The frown turns into a humorless smile. They're all wearing that look a lot, recently. "Close calls, huh?"

Phil raises his glass of water. "Here's to close calls." He's in the kitchen area, leaning against the counter. He'd love a stiff drink, but it probably wouldn't mix well with the pain meds for his knee, and he'd really love to take those too.

Clint's back outside, not over at the wall the way he'd spent the morning, but standing by the small table just outside the doors, peering over Tony's shoulder as he scans a tablet. Trying to rubberneck the news, Phil thinks. It occurs to him that maybe someone's looking for Clint. Someone other than the Regulation department. With the things he's been up to, it's not that unlikely.

He finishes his water and puts his glass in the sink, then goes and flips open Tony's laptop--a surprisingly mundane looking thing, in dull aluminum, built to take rough handling and powerful enough to keep them in touch with New York. "JARVIS," Phil says, "tell me we ran a security check on Clint. Tell me I remember doing that."

"You did, Agent Coulson."

Phil scowls. "Mr. Coulson." It's hopeless. Tony thinks he's hilarious, and if Tony approves, JARVIS won't quit.

"As you wish, Agent Coulson."

They'll never be on first name basis. "Remind me what we found."

JARVIS recites a list of crimes, but nothing new. Nothing Phil wasn't already aware of. "Who's after him?" he asks. He doesn't expect an answer, and JARVIS doesn't give him one. Instead the laptop pings impatiently, like he's typed an incorrect command. "Find me something off record."

He doesn't get anything but some old pictures of a much younger Clint frowning at a camera and sulkily chewing the inside of a cheek. Intake from the training house and also nothing Phil hasn't already seen. There's some training records he's also already found, notes on what skills Clint's picking up fast or not picking up at all. Phil keeps going, so absorbed that he barely feels his knee and doesn't hear Tony come back inside at all, until he sets his tablet down with a thunk, and leans onto his elbows, a little too close to Phil.

"Hi there," he says. "Want to see a music video I like?"

Phil doesn't jump. "Tony."

"It's me exploding, remixed into one sick dance beat." Tony picks up the tablet, then drops it to the table again. Smiles too wide.

"Am I in there?"

"A little bit. Mostly by accident and in the background. You're very handsome, though. They got your good angle."

"Anyone else?"

"Happy. Why? What's up?"

Phil looks up, checks where everyone is. Clint's gone, but Bruce is still in the kitchen area, watching them over the dividing island, waiting for more information, aware that something is going on but not sure what. Phil's got that same feeling, really.

"Why did you get Clint?"

Tony jaw tenses for just a second, before he shrugs and opens his mouth to spout bullshit. "Why _really_ , Tony?"

Tony sighs. Lifts a hand and drops it again. Uses one finger to knock his tablet into a slow spin on the table, then scratches the back of his head and shrugs again. "Because?" He tries.

Phil doesn't respond. Just keeps looking at him until Tony looks away and back and admits, "He was black tagged, and---I don't know. He just didn't seem that bad."

The way Steve had looked like a good guy, and Bruce was brilliant and misunderstood. Really, Phil loves Tony for all the reasons he also wants to smack Tony, a lot of the time.

"He can do handstand," Tony goes on. " _You_ can't do handstands. I can _fly_ , so I'm not part of this--"

"Okay."

For once, Tony shuts up. He doesn't move or give Phil more space, though. Instead, he leans closer to the laptop screen, like they're on video chat. "Hey, J."

"Hello, sir."

"What you lookin' for?"

"Off-record documentation for property code three-seven-four-nine-nine--"

"Clint," Tony interrupts, impatient, and give Phil a questioning look. "Are we in trouble? Are you trying to scrub a database?"

"Why would anyone sell you a black tagged slave?" Phil asks, ignoring the question. Tony gives him a look.

"I'm very rich," he says, like Phil might have missed that. "I'm also very charming. They changed their mind about how unrecoverable they thought he was." 

Phil takes a breath. Lets it out. "If he was black tagged, Regulations wasn't paying attention to him."

"Like hell they weren't."

"No, I mean--What was he going to? Hard labor somewhere?"

"Didn't ask." Of course he hadn't. Phil turns his attention back to the computer screen.

"JARVIS. Run facial recognition. Search for unlabeled images. The _unofficial_ stuff."

Phil half expects Tony to make some kind of crack, but he doesn't. Glancing from Phil to the screen and waiting while the search runs. Tony has a stupid little cat icon pacing the bottom of the screen to indicate JARVIS busy processing a task. It's made of large pixels and so dated looking that it's ridiculous. "You have Tetris on here too?"

"I like Tetris."

It takes a minute, but then JARVIS starts spitting up images. Not a lot. Not with the short run time they've given the search, but enough. They're grainy and badly lit in a way that Phil associates with a particular mix of amateur and clandestine. Photos taken surreptitiously, and illegally. The single video JARVIS finds is wobbly and shot from bad angles that somehow makes the whole thing feel even sleazier. He stops it playing as soon as he knows what it is, without waiting for the camera to settle its auto-focus.

"Shit," Tony offers.

"JARVIS, stop search," Phil says, and goes back to the kitchen to see if he can find what Happy's done with the scotch, deciding he'd rather the stiff drink than the pain meds. He doesn't pour one for Tony, just comes back with a mini bottle he finds stuffed in a cabinet. "Well," he says. "Now we know why he doesn't like cameras."

"How much of this do you think there is?" Tony asks, using his finger to slide images around.

"Who knows. Don't look at it."

"Jesus. I thought R-and-R was supposed to be, you know. Regulating and Rehabilitating."

"Yeah." Tony should know that there's a dark underbelly to everything, and it's not like a human trade should be any more honest than the weapons trade. No reason the oversight wouldn't be just as full of holes.

Phil comes back and considers the images Tony's shifting through. The one on top is of Clint looking directly at the camera, jaw clenched in stubborn outrage. It looks like his hair's been clippered off at some point. The regrowth is still too short to grip, but someone's got a hand holding him by the jaw, fingers digging in, something with straps hanging mostly out of frame. There's marks from similar previous treatment on Clint's face. Smudges of bruising. Scrapes on his face that aren't too different than the ones he's got now, from flying debris, except that these look like his face has been shoved into a rough flat surface. A wall or a floor. His lip is split.

The next picture is more awkward. Part of what could be a hip, and a hand moving through the frame, blurred in the low light. It might not even be Clint, but just some random file caught up in the shuffle. JARVIS is sparing them. Phil's sure things get more graphic, and if he resumes the search, JARVIS will come up with the images. 

"He's an escapee with a criminal record as long as my arm. Nobody was going to ask about him." Nobody was going to care, so long as Clint was broken enough to work and not make trouble. Phil knocks back the rest of his drink. "Except he already had training."

"Cleaned up prettier than they thought?" Tony's poking at the screen, closing the files, but the one on top is a longer shot of Clint in his tidy kneel. As sweet and agreeable looking as when he'd practiced with Steve, before Tony's party.

"And he charmed the pants off you," Phil concludes. "You sucker."

Tony closes the last file, and then the video without playing it. "Yeah, I'm a big softie," he says. "Ask Pepper."

"I'll ask Bruce," Phil tells him.

"You're going to look at this stuff, aren't you?" Tony asks, closing the laptop and nodding down at it. "When we get back to New York."

"He's unpredictable around cameras, Tony. And he said something about drugs. It's my job."

"It's not your job if you get hurt."

Phil huffs. Points out, "It's my job if _you_ get hurt."

"Happy," Tony says. "That's Happy's job. And Steve's. Your job is to put that leg up. I'll get you another drink."

"Fine. And maybe see if Steve will check on Clint? And after that let's talk about who wants you dead this time."

"And then gambling," Tony says. "Last night in Vegas and all."


End file.
